Peter Tremayne - Absolution by Murder

‘I will send a sister to look.’ Sister Athelswith turned and hurried off.

‘We might as well examine the sacrarium ourselves,’ Eadulf suggested, ‘in case the good sister has missed him. It would be easy to do so among so many people gathered there.’

‘At least we might find Brother Taran and take the opportunity to have a word with him,’ Fidelma agreed, rising.

They could hear the shouting before they opened the doors to the sacrarium and slipped inside. The debate was in full angry flood. Wilfrid was on his feet, banging his hand in agitation on the wooden lectern before him.

‘I say it is a scandal! An invention of Cass Mac Glais, the swineherd of your pagan Irish king Loegaire!’

‘That is not so!’ Cuthbert was also on his feet, his face red with anger.

Old Jacobus, the ageing James who had arrived in the kingdom of Kent with the Roman missionary Paulinus fifty years before, was rising to his feet as well, helped by his neighbours. He balanced insecurely, both hands placed in front of him on a stick over which he bent. The benches fell silent at the sight of the old man. Even the supporters of the Columban order grew quiet. There was no denying that Jacobus had authority for he was the link with the blessed Augustine sent by Gregory the Great to preach to the pagans of the Saxon kingdoms.

Only when the great chapel was silent did he commence to speak in a sharp, cracked voice.

‘I apologise for my young friend, Wilfrid of Ripon.’

There was a murmur of surprise and Wilfrid’s head snapped up, irritation on his features.

‘Yes,’ went on Jacobus, undeterred, ‘Wilfrid is in error about the origin of the tonsure affected by the Irish and the Britons.’

He held their attention now.

‘Our brethren have been misled. This tonsure they affect was that worn by Simon Magus of Samara who thought he could buy the power of the Holy Spirit and was duly rebuked by Peter. When I was a young man, I came to this island with Paulinus. We wore the same tonsure as that worn by our Holy Father, Gregory the Great; the same tonsure as worn by Augustine and his companions. Such was our outrage when we saw the Britons and our brethren of Ireland affecting a symbol which is contradictory to the faith.

‘Let me ask you, Brother Cuthbert, you who aspire to the everlasting crown of life, why do you persist in bearing on your head the semblance of an imperfect crown in contradiction to that faith?’

Cuthbert sprang up angrily.

‘By your permission, venerable Jacobus, this is the tonsure ascribed to the blessed apostle John and no other and you will see that it has the appearance of a crown or circle.’

Jacobus shook his head.

‘If I stand facing you directly, brother. But if you would bow your head towards me or stand in any other position you like …’

Frowning, Cuthbert did so.

There was a roar of laughter from the Roman benches.

‘See, an imperfect crown, a semicircle: decurtatam eam, quam tu videre putabas, invenies coronam!’ cried the old man.

Cuthbert sat down abruptly, his face reddening.

Jacobus pointed to his own small circle shaved on the crown of his head.

‘Here is the true circle, the symbol of the crown of thorns, blessed of Peter, the rock on which our church is built. Even some churches of the Britons now accept the truth of it. Those Britons who fled this land to settle in distant Iberia, in the land of Galicia, have now accepted the corona spinea. Thirty years ago the Synod of Toleda demanded the suppression of this barbaric tonsure among the clergy of the Britons of Galicia.’

Jacobus resumed his seat, smiling in self-satisfaction.

Fidelma felt a stirring of anger that there was silence on the Columban benches. Why did no one come forward to explain the tonsure of Columba and its deep mystical meaning? The warriors of Ireland and Britain considered it dishonourable to be deprived of that part of their hair, making them less than men. In the ancient times of the druids, the tonsure – the airbacc giunnae – was similarly cut. For the people of Ireland, the tonsure had a long and mystical association. Fidelma took a step forward and was opening her mouth to speak when Eadulf’s hand closed on her arm.

She gave a startled jump and turned.

Eadulf gestured with his head across the sacrarium.

Brother Taran was leaving through a side door.

Fidelma bit her lip, half turning back to the debating chamber but another speaker was on his feet, his voice raised in querulous argument.

Fidelma realised that it was impossible to cross the sacrarium to follow Taran, therefore it was best to leave by the door through which they had entered and then try to intercept him.

She motioned Eadulf to follow her.

By the time they had circumvented the walls of the sacrarium there was no sign of Taran.

‘He cannot have gone far,’ Eadulf commented, his voice full of annoyance.

‘Let us try in that direction.’ Fidelma pointed to the route by the monasteriolum.

They hurried along a cloistered area and emerged into the quadrangle before the monasteriolum.

‘Wait!’ hissed Fidelma as she suddenly pulled Eadulf back into the shadows.

In the middle of the quadrangle the figures of Wulfric and Brother Seaxwulf stood, as if waiting for Taran as the Pictish monk hurried towards them.

Seaxwulf said something and immediately turned away towards the monasteriolum. Fidelma noticed for the first time that Seaxwulf walked curiously, his back bent, and obviously in discomfort. She remembered what Abbess Abbe had said about Abbot Wilfrid’s punishment for his thieving secretary. A beating with a birch. She shivered slightly at the thought of the wounds such an assault could make.

Wulfric and Taran were now standing looking after the Saxon brother until he disappeared inside the building of the monasteriolum. Then Taran reached inside his habit and took out something which he handed to Wulfric. Wulfric glanced at it, slid it into his tunic, said something in a low voice and chuckled. He turned and hurried away towards the side gate.

Brother Taran paused for a few moments gazing after him, his hands on his hips. Then he turned slowly and began to walk back across the quadrangle towards the place where Fidelma and Eadulf stood.

Fidelma drew Eadulf out of the shadows.

Taran started as he saw them, giving a quick glance over his shoulder, obviously to see if Wulfric had disappeared. Wulfric had already gone through the side gate and so Taran turned back with a confident smile of greeting.

‘A bright day, Sister Fidelma,’ he called. ‘And Brother Eadulf, is it not? I have heard of your investigation. Indeed, the entire abbey speaks of it. It is almost as controversial a debating point as the matters before the synod.’

Fidelma did not respond to his attempt at being gregarious and amiable.

‘We were having a walk away from the dull dustiness of our chambers. As you say, it is a bright day. But it is good that we encountered you.’

‘Oh? How so?’ queried the Pictish monk, suddenly on his guard.

‘You visited Etain in her cubiculum on the day of her death, did you not?’

For a passing moment Taran looked surprised.

‘I … I did,’ he admitted. ‘Why do you ask?’ Then he smiled. ‘Of course, I am stupid. Yes, I went to see her but early in the morning.’

‘Why?’ asked Eadulf.

‘It was a personal matter.’

‘Personal?’ Fidelma’s voice had a biting edge to it.

‘I know … I knew Abbess Étain and thought it only right that I should make my presence at Streoneshalh known to her and wish her well in the debate.’